


Calm Me Down

by subplotter



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Biting, Dubious Consent, M/M, Masturbation, but not rape?, head games, slight D/s
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-10
Updated: 2013-06-10
Packaged: 2017-12-14 12:35:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/836929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/subplotter/pseuds/subplotter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles shifted uncomfortably, but Peter's hand did not move.  "Still don't want you to bite me."</p>
<p>"Still a lie."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Calm Me Down

**Author's Note:**

> The humans are assigned protectors for the night, and Stiles gets stuck with Peter (even after everything).

Stiles figured maybe there was too much angst in the room for them to pseudo-acknowledge the rest of the truth, but that didn't make any of it better.  Yes, Peter and Lydia had a history.  Yes, she'd been clawed by an Alpha, and left to run around like a crazy person in the woods, but that just wasn't the whole story, it wasn't.  Peter had hurt Stiles too.  And yet it was Peter who was to watch over Stiles tonight, like Scott couldn't do it, or Isaac, or Boyd, or  _anyone_  else.  Like it wasn't embarrassing enough that Stiles needed watching over in the first place.  So the Alpha pack was scary, and so he needed to keep up appearances for his dad (even though it was so beyond obvious by now that something more than everyday human shit was turning Beacon Hills into a warzone), but still.  Why Peter?

Probably because Peter had volunteered.

And now he was lying on the carpet in Stiles' room, with his spine curved just slightly, facing Stiles, the set of bones managing to be just as graceful as Peter himself (who wasn't any less scary as a beta, FYI).  And he was so quiet--Stiles couldn't even hear him breathe--yet Stiles was completely aware of his presence.  He made the room feel tight, and Stiles could hardly stay still, twisting three times before he forced himself to, his fingers curling into the edge of his pillowcase and pulling the fabric tight.  And then he remembered Peter could hear his heartbeat, and that hardly helped matters.  It was so hot in here.  Was it hot in here?

"Stiles."

Peter's voice was soft and disarming, just as Stiles remembered it to be that night on the field, Alpha claws in his chin and a dying Lydia against his knees.  He remembered standing, like a puppet, moving with the pain, trying to focus (he was always trying to focus) on what Peter had wanted him to do.  Stiles felt guilty, still.  Not for leaving Lydia, but partly for that.

"What?"

"Your heartbeat is incessant."

As if he could control it.  He took air in and pushed it out, feeling himself warm, he swore, in anger.  What a complete and utter ass Peter was.  Literally all the time he was an ass, and it was like nobody gave one inkling of a shit about it.

"Right.  Well let me just reach into my chest and slow it down."

"I could do that."

"No thanks."

He had the image of Peter transforming and clawing through his ribcage, but what Peter actually did was stand.  He reminded Stiles of a snake, but that only brought back the image of Jackson slithering around like a freak, and Peter slipping out of the shadows to help kill him like he couldn't have helped in the fight that happened beforehand.  Peter was like that guy in class who never seemed to pay attention but always got As.  And now he was coming closer, his eyes blank, and Stiles shrunk, inching back from the edge of the mattress, but there was never time.

"Please don't--"

"Shh."

Peter reached a claw-free hand out and down, sliding his fingers against the back of Stiles' neck.  Stiles fought it, but not hard, his limbs half-paralyzed.  The weight of Peter's hand was heavy and preternaturally warm, werewolf-warm, and it seemed to melt the tension out of Stiles' muscles there.  He wondered if it was a werewolf superpower he didn't know about, and he was about to ask, but Peter was talking again.

"The betas like this.  Do you?"

"You're a beta."

It was disappointing to hear the softness of his own voice now, the edge having left almost completely, and part of him wanted the claws back in his chin.  The thought pushed guilt into his stomach.  He wanted to hear something, he yearned for it, but the words wouldn't form in his head, let alone behind his teeth.  And he wouldn't share anything with Peter, not one thing (not willfully).

"You know, I wouldn't have to be here if you'd just let me bite you when I asked."

_No._   Stiles shifted uncomfortably, but Peter's hand did not move.  "Still don't want you to bite me."

"Still a lie."  And while Stiles had been trying to keep his eyes pointed forward, they drifted up now, taking in the confusion in Peter's expression; his eyebrows drew together, leaving a delicate crease between them.  "Which is strange, considering I could no longer change you.  Maybe you just want the pain.  Maybe you have a fetish."

Stiles' stomach twisted.  He didn't say anything.  Best to be silent than to let his heart skip over a lie.

"And tell me, Stiles.  Why didn't you tell them you were afraid of me?  They don't know what happened on the field, after all.   _You_  didn't go crazy and run around in the woods without your clothes on.  Which is a pity, really, I must say."

"That's your fault, not mine."  Peter's hand felt like a burn now, and Stiles was sure the tension in his muscles was back; he could hear his heart in his ears.

"Is that embarrassment I smell?  Why?"

"What?"  His head felt so split up.  It always felt that way around Peter.   _Should I stay with Lydia or should I help him?  If he kills me, would it be so bad?  But my dad, my dad._

"Do you resent the fact that I chose her and not you?"

"No, I--"

"I assure you it wasn't a conscious choice.  It could have been any of you.  The girl just happened to be running in front of me, that's all.  And she wouldn't have been smart enough to help me like you did.  I wouldn't have offered her the Bite."

"Lydia's a genius.  And you gave it to her."

"Not on the wrist."  Peter was more lizard-like than Jackson ever was.  His hand stayed in its spot over Stiles' nape, but his other hand came down, sliding under the fabric and finding Stiles' wrist, hidden so safely (unsafely) in the warmth of the covers.  He brought it out.  He pressed a thumb over the veins, holding the bones and skin so delicately.  Stiles felt so hot.  He knew he was sweating.  He knew Peter could probably see the moisture, like Scott said he could, how it helped him know that Allison was lying.

"Leave me alone."  Why was his voice so weak?  "Leave me alone, I don't care if the Alpha pack gets me, they won't come here, they won't."

"Shh.  You know they will.  You know you're important."

The words coupled with the gentle way Peter was holding his wrist (and looking at him, so intently) sent heat into Stiles' stomach, coating the guilt, making bad things happen between his legs.  He was thankful that the comforter still covered him there, where he could feel himself hardening, could feel the loss of blood to his head in a sudden wave.

"Peter--"

"I know, Stiles.  I can smell it.  It's okay."

But it wasn't.  And not even the gentle circling of Peter's thumb against his neck could make him think that, but his own hand still drifted.  It slid down his stomach and past the band of his sweats, encircling himself until a choked sound broke from the back of his throat.

Peter lifted Stiles' wrist to his mouth, drawing his fangs out, and Stiles could feel the nails growing against his neck.  They hurt, but in a dull, skin-still-intact way, and he knew Peter was doing it on purpose.  Peter seemed to do everything on purpose, even when he'd been crazy (wasn't he still?).  His fangs brushed the skin of Stiles' wrist, and the hand going so fast under the covers jostled the fabric and pushed more sounds past Stiles' lips.

"Bite me."

His voice sounded distant to himself, so quiet under his own furious heartbeat, but the sensation of the fangs was so clear.  They didn't hurt at all, but then Peter pushed them in just enough that they did, little red holes coming into the skin and pouring blood, tickling as it trailed and dripped.  

Stiles moaned.  He couldn't help it.  His hand was too dry; he wanted to lick it, but that would take too much time, and he was so close, so close.  He started talking and couldn't stop.  His wrist stung.  "I don't--I don't want to be a--a werewolf, I still don't, I wasn't--I wasn't lying about that.  Please don't hurt me.  Please--please don't really hurt me.  If the Alphas come, you won't--you won't be able to protect me.  You're just a beta, Peter.  This plan is so--so flawed, that's what I don't get, everybody wants you in my room.  Why?  They know--they know I don't--I don't like you."

"They  _don't_.  And do please stop talking, Stiles, you make it hard for me control myself when you beg."

And he hadn't meant to beg at all, but the whole idea seemed to shock his head.  It was one, two, three pumps, and then it was over.

Coming down, Stiles slid a sticky hand from under the covers and laid it palm-up over the fabric.

"Please stop touching me," he said.

Peter smiled.  "I don't have to touch you anymore.  You already did that yourself."

But at least he moved away again.  At least he lay back down on the carpet, with his spine facing Stiles, and his eyes facing anywhere but in Stiles' direction, watching him like he could see everything.

He could.  But now Stiles was so tired, and Peter was right, he did slow down his heart.  Eventually.


End file.
